


Once, Now, and Forevermore

by snapeslittleblackbuttons



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:51:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4774220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snapeslittleblackbuttons/pseuds/snapeslittleblackbuttons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Try me." His eyes glittered dangerously as his lips curled in a smirk. He was not asking her to explain the complications of her relationship with Ron, was he? Severus Snape/Hermione Granger. A post DH, SS/HG romance. HEA. Rated M for implied sexual content and language. Warning: mild Ron bashing. Please comment! I would appreciate it so very much!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter are the express property of J. K. Rowling. I adore these characters, but I don't own them.

“Excuse me? I didn’t order this.”

Hermione Granger sat at the bar alone, fidgeting slightly on the tall wooden stool and folding and refolding the napkin that had been left under her first drink. She’d looked up to notice that she’d been silently gifted a second Firewhisky by the bartender.

She had chosen this particular bar, located in depths of a renovated section of Diagon Alley, because, oddly enough, it was a place where she still had to pay for a drink. At all of the other pubs nearby, famous war heroes drank as often as they pleased, and as much as they pleased, without concerning themselves with starting a tab. The only price was recognition.

Tonight, however, she craved anonymity. She knew she would never truly achieve that—she was recognized wherever she went—but there were times when she deeply appreciated when those around her acted as though she was just another witch. She _was_ just another witch. Sometimes she didn't want to be seen as a war hero and the best friend of the savior of the wizarding world. Sometimes she just wanted to be a witch sitting at a bar nursing a drink. This was one of those times.

It was Saturday evening, and surprisingly, the new bar was mostly empty, which was perfect for what she needed to do: mourn what she thought she had found in Ron.

The problem with breaking up with Ron was that on nights like this one, she lost Harry too. Well, she never truly, fully lost him of course, but she was certain that somewhere tonight, Harry and Ginny were snuggled up in a booth enjoying free Firewhiskys and fawning attention from the waitress and Ron was chasing anything nearby sporting a skirt and a hefty rack. Harry hadn’t invited her to tag along.

Hermione supposed her best friend was trying to spare her from having to witness it all—how happy he and Ginny were, and how much of a rat Ron turned out to be. Harry’s instincts were right of course; she didn’t have the strength to endure one of those nights. Everything was still to raw.

“Compliments of that wizard,” the barkeep nodded toward the dark corner of the room as he picked up a glass to polish it clean.

She followed the bartender’s nod to see _him_ seated in dark corner of the bar, alone at a table with his drink. His obsidian eyes met hers as she turned to look in his direction.

_She remembered the last time she had seen him..._

_He had been surveying her all night, staring at her unabashedly from the corner of the room as he stood with his back leaning against the far wall. Even when others approached and spoke to him, he didn’t turn towards them when replying; his black eyes remained on her no matter what happened around him. He had done this since the end of the war, at every single party, at every single gathering, at Grimmauld Place or not…he simply stared at her. Relentlessly._

_It was partially unnerving, partially intoxicating. He seemed to be publicly claiming his desire for her. People had begun to talk._

_And it had infuriated Ron._

_The celebration party where she had seen him last was yet another wild one. The party was noisy and raucous; wizards and witches were out of control, drunk with the madness of victory, trying to fill the gaping hole left from the war with lighter memories. It was an empty endeavor of course; drunken revelry never truly soothed the ache of loss that continued to blanket their lives. But they were going to try, nonetheless._

_Presumably, he had followed her when she had gone to the bathroom. When she came out of the toilet, he grabbed her and pulled her into the adjacent room and warded the door._

_“What are you doing, Professor?” she managed through the fog of drink._

_Instead of answering her, he pulled her to him and kissed her, deeply and passionately, and, after the smallest of moments, she felt herself respond in kind, wrapping her arms around him, her tongue responding urgently to his, her breath quickening, her panties becoming wet with desire._

_Eventually, she broke off and breathed, “I have to go.”_

_“I will allow it…for now.” She looked at him through the fog of the butterbeer and realized…_ he’s serious. _Just as she thought to turn and go, he took her by the nape of the neck and pulled her into one last deep kiss. She closed her eyes, and by the time she opened them again, still dizzy and breathless, he had already turned away and was leaving the room. She collapsed onto a chair for a moment to regain her composure. When she returned to the sitting room, he had already left. And that was the last time she had seen him._

How long had it been since that night? Had it truly been a few months since the last licentious victory party at Grimmauld Place? On an impulse, she grabbed her cloak and her drink and rose, striding towards him, not knowing if he even wanted company. He must, right? He had sent her the drink, hadn’t he?

“Thank you,” she said as she approached the table.

“Certainly. Would you care to join me, Miss Granger?” He rose to pull out a wooden chair for her and she settled into it. “It’s a rare evening that sees you here. And alone. Are you well?”

She smiled ruefully looking down at her drink. “Ronald Weasley is a fucking bastard.”

“Indeed. If for nothing more than conspiring to leave such a stunning creature as yourself alone in this hovel on a Saturday evening. It’s unconscionable.”

The look on his face said he wasn’t exaggerating. She huffed a laugh, trying to hide her embarrassment at the outright compliment. No one had ever called her _stunning_ before, least of all, Ron. “I’m afraid it’s far more than that. But this isn’t exactly news to you, is it, Professor?”

“ _Severus_ , Miss Granger. I am no longer a professor, as I’m certain you are aware.”

“Severus, then.” She paused, noticing his drink was almost empty. “May I buy you another, Severus?” His given name on her tongue was… _delicious_.

“Indeed.”

“What would you like?”

His eyes glittered dangerously while openly surveying her. _You_ , his infinitely dark eyes said. It was the imprecise words she had chosen. She must be better with her questions, more careful. “For now, Lagavulin. Neat.”

Scotch, she supposed, by the sound of it. She got up and went to the bar to get him one. She returned with the partially full glass, its smoky scent intriguing her.

“Thank you, Miss Granger.”

“Hermione.”

“Thank you, Hermione,” he said, something unreadable in his dark eyes.

“Certainly.”

After a moment, he said simply, “Let me help.”

The situation with Ron, she assumed. “It’s complicated, far too complicated to explain.” She took a swallow of her own drink.

“ _Try me_.” His lips curled in a smirk. He was not asking her to explain the complications of her relationship with Ron, was he?

She decided to ignore his innuendo, for now. “He’s indecisive. Self-absorbed. Obsessed with fame. He prefers…well, the closest witch who lifts her skirt. I found that I couldn’t live that way. It doesn’t matter. It was short lived, and we are no longer together. And for that, I’m relieved. More than relieved. Grateful that it’s over.”

“You need someone single-mindedly dedicated to pleasing you.”

She huffed another laugh and took a swallow of her Firewhisky. “Does that wizard even exist?”

“He does,” he said seriously, shamelessly staring at her.

Music started, a slow, sultry tune, and she turned to gaze longingly at several couples on the floor who had started to walk to the dance floor.

“Dance with me,” he said, standing and holding out his hand to her.

She was too stunned to react at first; she just stared at his hand. _He wants to dance with me?_ Regaining her composure, she stood and took it. “Thank you.”

As they reached the floor, he pulled her close. She could smell the essence of him on his raven frock coat, the _Severus_ of him. His hand settled into the small of her back, guiding her, commanding her steps. It was…intoxicating. He pulled her even closer, leading without hesitation, then leaned to breathe in her ear to say, “Have dinner with me.”

“When?” The single word was all she could manage.

“Now.”

Without awaiting her answer, he led her from the floor by the hand, stopping at the dark corner table for their cloaks, then exiting the side door into a dark alley. He pulled her to him and they spun away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The plot bunnies have lost their furry little minds. This was supposed to be a short fluff piece, now it's on course to be a bit longer and much more involved...and terrifyingly AU. Did I say terrifyingly? Keep that in mind. Sorry this chapter is a bit short, but it just worked out that way. Updates coming much more frequently now. As always, thanks for reading. -slbb

Severus had no idea how he knew he would find her in the pub this night. He just…knew.

He knew, too, as of this moment, he was hardly more than a curiosity to her. An intriguing, salacious distraction, at most. All of that would end tonight: he would reveal who he really was. He smiled sadly to himself. _What crime did I commit that condemned me to endure the trial of this particular life?_ he mused. He couldn't fathom what it might have been. But it didn't matter now. Not this night. Not when he was so close.

Severus turned the highball glass over in his hand. The tawny liquid inside fascinated him, yielding obediently to the power of gravity with each revolution in his grip. If he could only yield in that way. He took another swallow, and set the glass on the ancient, scarred wood of the table, noticing yet again that its contents were the precise brown of her eyes. Was that the reason he always reached for it when he could not have her? Perhaps.

He traced the rim of the glass with his finger and stared the back of her black cloak as she rested at the bar. What was she thinking right now? She seemed…troubled. If he guessed correctly, it was the Weasley boy that had driven her here. Perhaps she was done with her infatuation of him. All the better, all the easier for him, this night.

He'd seen her pine after Weasley at Hogwarts, and remembered the boy, as imbecilic as he looked, oblivious to it at first. He remembered the jealousy in the boy's eyes during the Yule Ball as he watched her dance with Krum. He remembered the smile alighting her face these last few months when the imbecile walked into Grimmauld Place, feeding his own territorialism. He remembered far too much of it, in fact.

In truth, there were many things Severus did not wish to remember. He could bitterly recall the ever-present ache residing in him since the arrival of conscious thought in his youth; the ache that curled around his heart, its tendrils squeezing his lungs and snaking down the length of each nerve in his body, pushing him to become aloof, skittish, and unsociable. No one else seemed to battle the nameless demon that hid just underneath his skin, a demon of emptiness, loss, incompleteness. He'd been baffled. Why did he ache? What had he lost?

He remembered that feeling of loss intensifying as the years passed. By the time he had finished the first half of his schooling at Hogwarts, he had been unable to suppress the mounting unease in his soul. What if he never discovered why he felt so empty? It was Lily that had been so close, so damn close, to filling that void inside, he had both loved and hated her for it. Ultimately his rage—at her, at himself, at this inexplicable feeling—had driven Lily away. That very same sense of lacking something pushed him into swearing loyalty to an insane, vindictive master.

Oh, Severus understood how the Dark Lord felt when he had split his soul. He had arrived in the world like that.

But there were things he wanted to summon to mind, to recall in delicious detail. There were many lifetimes' worth of those memories, crammed within his mind, jostling for attention; they had become to the surface that day she had arrived at Hogwarts. When he saw her, everything had come flooding back in a jumble of impossibility: the question should have never been what had he lost, but who. It was then he had remembered, and, Sweet Merlin, and suddenly, instantly, absolutely everything in his world made sense.

* * *

 

The healing after Nagini's bite wasn't as difficult as others had assumed. Severus hadn't enlightened them; he hadn't shared that he'd been brewing the antidote for years and had been dosing himself with it daily, building up his resistance to her venom. Most of his injuries and weakness had been caused by extreme blood loss. Not easy to recover from, but not impossible either.

All the while he brewed and faithfully consumed the antivenin, Severus prayed to any deity who would listen that if he should fail to survive, that they might be gifted with yet another chance. He didn't think he'd live through the chaos, but against every probability, he had survived the war. But still she had not remembered.

It made him desperate.

So he had watched her—that much was true. He forced himself to look her in the eye, opening up his mind, removing every shield he knew, dragging the memories of her to the surface, hoping to stir something in her own, some hidden memory of them, some long forgotten key. It was the opposite of what his training had demanded of him, the opposite of what had kept him stubbornly alive, but he did it with the focus and desperation of a man grasping at his one last chance at life. At happiness, Merlin help him.

He was certain once he had pulled his walls down, she would know him. He had tried, pinning her with his stare, presenting his soul to her. If the old adage the eyes are the windows of the soul were true, she should have recognized that some part of her soul that was only complete in his. She should have seen something to help unearth what had been buried.

He'd failed.

Instead, she had shied away from him, spooked and unnerved by his stare. He knew why: it was his role in this lifetime. Ultimately, Hermione Granger had been unable to see past the monster he'd been forced to become.

As he sat watching her fiddling with the napkin at the bar, he understood right where her thoughts were. He smiled to himself as he waived the waitress over and to send her a drink. Severus had played the ignorant one of them once in days past; he also knew her time of living blissfully unaware would end this night. He would see to it.

It had to, or he would simply go mad.

He had become tired of waiting. He had a plan. And, even though it was quite obvious that she still adored manuscripts, this time, it wouldn't involve a book.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here is where the story starts to go horribly awry, and where yours truly takes brazen liberties with historical dates. Yeah, real historical dates. -slbb (ducks and tiptoes quietly away)

1176* Troyes, France

Chrétien de Troyes was an arse. A pompous, self-serving, pansy…arse. The patronage of Lady Marie of France had gone straight to his head.

Henry rose from the chair and strolled to the fireplace, clasping his hands behind him. He despised begging. It never, well, _suited_ him. But as of this moment, he had little choice. He could think of no other way.

His plan was a simple one. Chrétien would write the story and then it would be presented to Lady Marie, her outline fleshed out with Chrétien’s—and some of Henry’s own—details. It would be a fantasy clothing Arthur and his warlords of more than 700 years prior in the codes of chivalry and shiny armor of the present, complete with a bloody _round_ table. Perhaps less realism and more fantasy would be amusing, as it were—at least to Henry. He tried to imagine Chief Warlord Pendragon, for instance, with his grizzled beard, chipped teeth, and fox pelts, buckled into armor, bending down from his war horse to grant a dainty _token_ to a delicate maiden before riding into battle. Or giving a shite who sat where at the table where they supped. He nearly laughed aloud.

But even with the truth masked so deeply within the lines of script, it would be sufficient to work. It had to.

Chrétien crossed his legs and shifted in the overstuffed chair, a sly smile on his face as he waived away his personal attendant with an elegant flutter of fingers. “The Lady Marie is interested in that part of history, true. She has, one might say, an unhealthy obsession with it.”

“My terms are clear,” Henry responded flatly. “You will arrange for me to personally deliver the finished manuscript directly to her. And the details and dialogue I have provided must be imbedded in the narrative and she must… _not_ …know of it.”

“I may deem it necessary to make…shall we say…modifications to the character of the knight,” Chrétien said, barely concealing his glee at his own suggestion.

“I don’t give a shite.” He could care less how Chrétien’s Lancelot appeared, as long as Chrétien included the particulars he had provided.

“So you say.” Chrétien fiddled with his glass, a bit more wary than a moment ago. “Very well, then.” He smiled what Henry took to be an indulgent smile. “You—or rather she—will have your little story.” He raised his glass and drank. “To Lancelot, then.”

Henry smirked and raised his own glass. “Indeed.”

* * *

 

It took Chrétien a mere three months to finish the manuscript. To Henry, the three months seemed an eternity. The work was delivered, and it appeared that Chrétien had kept his word: Henry’s dialogue and details had been carefully crafted into the story.

_…but the iron was so sharp that he split his little finger to the nerve and cut the end joint of his second finger right through…_

And at long last, the morning had arrived when Henry was to offer the finished piece to Lady Marie herself. He waited just beyond the threshold of the door for Lady Marie’s attendant to announce him. “May I present Henry I, Count of Champagne, my lady.” The attendant bowed deeply, and left the sitting room in a silent flourish.

“Lady Marie.” Henry strode into the chambers and bowed deeply, hiding his smile.

“Sir. I am pleased to make your formal acquaintance.”

“As am I, my lady.” He took her in, her riotous curls tamed in a chignon, her brown eyes curious, her delicate hands folded. How he missed her…and he was close, so close. “I am here to deliver this manuscript, _Le Chevalier de la Charrette_ , from one Chrétien de Troyes, as commissioned by his generous patroness, the Lady Marie of France,” he said, nodding in her direction.

“Thank you, sir. It is my honour to commission literary works. As well as an honour to make your formal acquaintance.”

“At the risk of sounding forward, my lady, I understand that you and I have something in common.”

“Is that so, Sir Henry?”

“I have been told that you are quite taken with the story of King Arthur and his…knights.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

“Additionally, my lady, I understand that you provided your poet an outline of the story in this very manuscript.”

“That is true. But good sir, I am at a loss. You know much about me, yet I know little of you. You seem to have me at a clear disadvantage.”

“If either of us are at a disadvantage, my lady, it is I, who stand here in your presence.” Marie blushed at this, tucking a wayward curl behind a delicate ear, her brown eyes cast downward. “If I may, what makes you seek this story?” he pressed.

She turned toward the fire, and seemed to summon her courage. “I know not…there is something…familiar about it, much like a dream forgotten only moments before. The memory lives on the tip of my tongue, yet though I search, I am not able to find sufficient words to describe it,” she answered softly.

“As if your soul needs to speak of it, but it cannot find the language to do so,” he replied just as softly.

She turned back to him, clearly surprised. “Yes. That is why I provided the foundation of the story to Chrétien but not the details.” She looked at him intently, cocking her head to the side. “You do not find this odd?”

“No, my lady.” He stared at her for a moment without speaking. “I confess to have…suggested to your poet…additional…particulars to include in _his version_ of the story. _Perhaps_ you will find them…interesting.”

“ _Perhaps_ ,” she conceded, with a small, shy smile and a nod.

“Then _perhaps_ you would consider doing me the honour of allowing me to call on you once you have completed reading the work?”

“We could then discuss the…interesting details you provided to my trouvère.”

“It would be my great honour, my lady.” Henry bowed again, and took his leave of her, silently willing her to read it the moment he left her sitting room.

* * *

 

He needn’t have worried: Henry received the summons from Lady Marie the following day, requesting his presence at Troyes as soon as he was able. _Ah. So she has read it…maybe…_

Arriving at Troyes, Henry made his way to her sitting room, striding down the ornate corridor, his black boots echoing down the chamber, his long cloak billowing in his wake. As he crossed the threshold into her sitting room, she looked up at him, her face white with panic, but did not rise from her chair. She was biting her bottom lip.

Lady Marie stared at him in silence for a moment. “Dwi'n cofio < _I…remember >_,” she finally whispered in Welsh, so softly, he barely heard.

“Faint < _how much >_?” he asked. He saw her shudder at his voice.

“Popeth _< all of it>_,” she answered. She took a breath. “How…?” she asked, switching back to French.

“I do not know, Your Grace,” he answered honestly.

“Why did you remember and I did not? Until this day, that is.”

“I do not know, my lady.”

“When…when did you know?”

“When I first saw you at court, some six months gone.”

“Yet you said nothing,” she said. A trace of pain reverberated in her voice.

“You needed to discover it yourself,” he replied evenly.

“So you approached Chrétien.”

“Yes.” He walked toward the window, gazing out to the courtyard below, and after a moment he turned to look at her again, hands clasped at his back. “With a proposal to add just a touch of truth to colour the madness he was composing for you. Hoping it would stir a memory within you.”

“It did.” She looked at him for a long moment, her honey brown eyes filling with tears, her voice, beginning to tremble. “I do not know how to address you. I didn’t know last time. Each time I remember, I never know.”

“It matters not.” He paused, looking down to the manuscript in her shaking hand. “They have slandered you, my queen, these long years.”

She quietly responded with his own words. “It matters not.” He looked up at her face again and she held his eyes with her own, smiling sadly. “I have missed you.”

“And I, you.”

“It is much less of a mess this time.”

“Than the first? Yes.” She huffed a laugh through her almost-tears. “Arthur was a selfish bastard. The only things he ever wanted to do were wage war and rut his sister. Thank God for battle, keeping him away, and for Le Fey, keeping his cock busy. Both kept him out of my bed. Being a wife in name only was all the better for me, but I still could not have you. Openly, that is, my beloved.”

“It was a time when one married for land, not love. But yes, it could have been worse,” he conceded.

“Do you remember the time after Britain?” she asked.

“Avignon? Yes. You remembered me long before I remembered you. It was achingly brief. Martel had his own designs on my life.”

She looked down at the manuscript, a furrow crossing her delicate brow. “Chrétien. I should have him hanged. Knight of the Cart. Truly.”

“Although he does not know who I am—who we are—he sought to show me in my place, since I dared influence what he wrote. Perhaps he sensed that I was…inexplicably attached to the protagonist.” He smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yet he did not refuse you.”

“My gold argued for me,” he said tiredly. He sat down next to her. “Have you your magic?”

“Yes.”

“You have kept it well hidden,” he said with a faint smile.

“Yes.” Her brown eyes met his. “Yours?”

“Yes.”

“I still do not know what to call you. _Henry_ does not seem to suit you, beloved.”

He huffed a laugh. “I’m used to it now. _Marie_ does you no favors either, Gwynhyfar,” he teased in his deep rich voice, lapsing into a Welsh accent.

She laughed outright at his comment. “How I have missed you, Lance.” Her brown eyes lightened. She took his hand. “What now, beloved?”

“We live the life we dreamed of. The one we could not the first time. The one we were promised in Avignon, but it was taken from us. As husband and wife. Bound to no other. No Hammer. No Pendragon. And gods, no bloody Myrddin.”

She smiled at this. “None of them, to be sure.” She paused. “Just us.”

“And our magic.”

“And our magic.”

* * *

 

Severus almost allowed himself to smile as he summoned to mind the memory of her _remembering_ in her drawing room in Troyes. The manuscript had served its purpose, after all. He looked up to see that she was speaking to the barkeep and gathering her bag to walk over to him—presumably to thank him for the drink. Now, to gain the trust of the woman called Hermione Jean Granger in this lifetime. He knew how.

He had gained her trust in lifetimes before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Le Chevalier de la Charrette" was written by Chrétien de Troyes sometime between 1175 and 1181. 
> 
> Henry I, Count of Champagne and Lady Marie of France are both historical figures, however they were married in 1164, rather than 1176. (Begging forgiveness…)
> 
> I chose Henry and Marie for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, Marie commissioned "Le Chevalier de la Charrette", which solidified the central figure of Lancelot into the Matter of Britain and indeed, into our collective consciousness. Marie was incredibly well read; she “maintained her own library” and eventually Count Henry’s court became a “renowned literary center” (please see wikipedia.org). Henry was both highly intelligent and powerful—one of the most powerful men of his time. 
> 
> Sound like a couple of people you know? I thought so. 
> 
> Scenes surrounding Charles Martel (“the Hammer”) and Arthur Pendragon will appear in later chapters.
> 
> A note on language: I do not speak Welsh. The Welsh parts have been translated using web engines. Please, if you speak Welsh and you find that it needs a bit of correction, would you PM me? I would be in your debt. 
> 
> And if you see any more strangely rabid plot bunnies…please convince them to stay far, far away from me.  
> -slbb


	4. Chapter 4

“Thank you,” Hermione said, walking up to his table, as if she were unsure she should speak to him.

"Certainly. Would you care to join me, Miss Granger?" Not waiting for a reply, Severus rose and pulled out a chair for her. "It's a rare evening that sees you here. And alone. Are you well?"

Hermione shed her cloak, settled into the chair, and smiled ruefully, looking down at her drink. "Ronald Weasley is a fucking bastard."

He swallowed a smile. "Indeed. If for nothing more than conspiring to leave such a stunning creature as yourself alone in this hovel on a Saturday evening. It's unconscionable."

He heard her small laugh, somewhere between disbelief and embarrassment. "I'm afraid it's far more than that. But this isn't exactly news to you, is it, Professor?" she asked, looking up from her Firewhisky.

" _Severus_ , Miss Granger. I am no longer a professor, as I'm certain you are aware," he said evenly.

"Severus, then." She paused. "May I buy you another, Severus?"

"Indeed."

"What would you like?"

_Now there is a question for the ages._ He suppressed his smirk. “For now, Lagavulin, neat.” He studied her as she rose from her chair and walked gracefully to the bar. When she was out of earshot, he answered her question fully. “But for the rest of my days, my lady… _you_ ,” he whispered, “only you.”

_The rest of his days_. Oh, how in some lifetimes past _the rest of his days_ had been far too few...

* * *

 

736 Avignon, France

The breeze was cool and soothing, beguiling all of the bloody truth of Martel’s ever-present war. It whispered in the window of the house, delicate and soft, encouraging the curtains to gently sway. And she…she was sitting on a rough wooden chair in his armor room, her fingers gripping the arms so fiercely, they were white with strain. The sharp call of a nearby lark broke the silence that had grown between them. At this, she spoke.

“You cannot go,” she said to him beseechingly.

“I can. I must,” he answered briskly, cinching the leather strap on his bag, not looking her in the eye.

“Please…” she said, changing her tactic.

“Josceline,” he responded, meeting her eye at last. “I cannot imagine fate to be so unkind as to gift us this lifetime just so I can die in battle mere months after finding you again. I have my magic. I will be safe,” he responded, exasperated.

“You do not know this.” She said flatly. He inwardly conceded that it was the best—and only—argument she had left. And it also happened to be true.

“ _Gwyn_ …” he began.

“No. You may not go,” she commanded. He wondered if the name he had just spoken had reminded her to try using her best regal voice to persuade him.

“What I am I to do, woman? I am bound to my lord, and Martel has bid me go.” He crossed the room and bent to gift her a peck on the cheek. “I will return.”

“I feel in my heart that you will not,” she said softly.

“I cannot refuse. I have sworn an oath. You know this.”

“Gervaise. _Lance_. You must not go.” She paused briefly then turned to gaze out the window to the garden beyond. “But I accept that it is required of you.” She looked back to him and smiled a defeated, rueful smile. “You are too strong and brave to die. Besides, I will not allow it,” she added, her brown eyes fierce.

He huffed a laugh at the last. “You will not allow it, beloved? So fate bends its ancient, gnarled knee at your command, my lady?” he teased.

“Would that it does,” she responded sadly. Her eyes met his. “Be safe, beloved husband,” she said, then stood and walked gracefully away, without looking back or waiting for his reply.

“Of that, you have my word,” he said to her receding form.

His word or no, that day would be the last he would see her for some 400 years. For the next day, his life in Avignon, brief as a whisper, was gone.

* * *

Severus watched as she strode back to him from the bar, his new Scotch in hand. There was no need to dwell on the tragedy of Avignon; she was _here_ , _now_. "Thank you, Miss Granger." He said as she handed it to him.

"Hermione," she corrected as she settled herself back in her chair next to him.

"Thank you, Hermione," he said, almost not catching himself before addressing her differently.

"Certainly," she said and bit her lip. _Sweet Merlin_ , if she only knew what that did to him. What it had always done to him.

* * *

497 AD Southwest Britain countryside

Mud.

His horse, his shield, his mail, his food, even his bloody _squire_ were covered in thick, brown mud. The kind that felt as though it would never, ever come off. The kind that permeated the skin under his fingernails and blanketed the crack in his arse like nothing else could. The kind—should one be coated in it as often as he had been lately—that left him wondering where the mud ended and he started.

Fuck, he felt like his entire _life_ was covered in it.

So was this what it was like to serve the mighty Pendragon? Days upon days of squire-boy errands while he and his war horse were encrusted in filth? When he was done, he was going to get clean. Very clean. And maybe indulge in some…company. Arthur wasn’t going to be the only one getting warm on those bitter nights that would be upon them soon. Not that he wasn’t made of stern stuff, it was simply that he had always believed he was meant for bigger things. Things more…grand than mud. More…eternal.

Lancelot huffed a dispirited sigh. Wherever did he get those notions? His latest errand was a journey to retrieve Pendragon’s young bride, the eldest daughter of Leodegrance. As someone relatively new to Arthur’s service, he supposed he should be pleased he had been chosen him to fetch the girl. It was an honour to do so, and while his brain knew this, his muddy arse did not.

He was tired, that was all. He’d had to travel all the way to Logres to retrieve the sweet little morsel, dammit. And he’d much, much rather be doing something else. Anything else.

Rumor was that she was pretty, Pendragon’s bride, with brown curls and brown eyes; young but intelligent, desired by many a chieftain. It was a good match for Pendragon, consolidating his power. But no matter what the girl looked like, or how much the marriage solidified his position, he knew Arthur didn’t want her. There was only one woman Arthur ever wanted to bed; he wondered what Leodegrance’s daughter would think of _that_. He also wondered if she would be enough of a beauty to change Pendragon’s mind. He doubted it.

As he urged his horse over another sodden ridge, the thought of Arthur with Morgana turned his stomach sour. Brothers and sisters should never engage in…well, that was not for him to say. Besides, Cameliard had finally come view. It was the promise of a hot bath and a hot meal, in what appeared to be less than a day’s ride. It was the best news his muddy arse had had in a while.

* * *

When he was finally perfectly, blessedly clean—balls to teeth—Lancelot descended the stairs and entered the Hall to sup. Gods, he was _starving_.

“Lancelot du Lac, at your service, my lord,” he said, bowing to Leodegrance upon entering the hall.

“Lancelot, welcome. Please sit. Refresh yourself.”

“Thank you, my lord.” As he walked to the seat that awaited him, he became aware of eyes on him; not the curious, furtive glances of the strangers at the table trying to decipher him, but the hard stare of someone straining to gain his attention. He turned in the direction of the feeling.

And she was there.

And when he saw her, he knew why he had been destined to retrieve her. He knew why the gods had fashioned the world. And he knew why life had been granted to the both of them.

He met her wide, honey eyes and saw heat colour her face.

She was biting her bottom lip.

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

A whisper of memory drew Severus out of the dark pub and immersed him in the sunny grounds near Camelot.

_He and she had escaped the drafty castle; they were walking along a green path towards the fields, chatting about innocuous things, while her handmaiden was trailing a few steps behind. When her maidservant had excused herself momentarily, Gwynhyfar leaned toward him and asked softly, “Sir, may I be bold?”_

_It seemed that her words were rushed and tinged with an urgency he had never heard before, as if she were about to share some important secret she didn’t want overheard. He considered her, with her hands clasped and shaking, her brown eyes wide, standing close, so very close, and wondered what she might say. “My lady, you may say anything you desire without asking permission of me,” he answered just as softly._

_She swallowed and leaned ever closer. “In the future, should you and I find ourselves…lacking attachments, I should very much enjoy exploring whether you and I are…compatible,” she whispered in return, her face flushed but looking him in the eye nevertheless._

_Her forwardness surprised him at first, but upon reflection, he found that her words were, in fact, quite wise. Even soon-to-be queens knew chieftains lived notoriously short lives…and she was, if anything, rather sensible. He paused, searching for the right reply. “My lady, I would find it quite surprising if we were not. In fact, I would stake my very life on the fact that we are.”_

_She smiled briefly then, and a wordless promise passed between them. They walked on in companionable silence, listening to their footfall on the grass of the path._

_After a moment, he looked over at her and saw her smile was gone, and her honey brown eyes were filled with the beginning of tears. “What makes you sad, my lady?”_

_“Knowing you are so close and yet I may never be yours.”_

_“The future is unknown, my lady. Perhaps fate shall be kind to us.”_

_“Perhaps.”_

_Hearing the handmaiden making her way back to them, she stepped to the side to put some distance between them. Then he saw a flutter of panic cross her delicate features. He looked down to see why she hesitated, and noticed her emerald green gown had been caught in the brambles on the side of the path._

_“My lady,” he said as he bent to assist her, “let me help.”_

After the smallest of moments, Severus echoed his words from that day centuries ago, willing Hermione to recognize them from ages past. “Let me help.”

“It's complicated, far too complicated to explain,” Hermione responded. Severus hid his disappointment at her automatic reply. She took a swallow of her own drink, which gave him another moment to recall something _he_ had never quite been able to explain: how they had come together in the first place.

* * *

 

“You want her.”

It was a mere eleven days before the wedding of Arthur and Gwynhyfar, and Lancelot had been called to task before Pendragon like an errant squire boy. He stood, feeling vulnerable without his sword and mail, in front of the table in the Grand Hall where Pendragon sat alone devouring his meal.

Arthur had no need to identify the particular female in question. Lancelot felt his face drain of colour. _Fuck._ Had they been overheard? And although they had exchanged only a few words, after their conversation on the path, he had spent days wrestling with the urge to seek her out. And yes, there had been a handful of times he’d lost his struggle. He just hadn’t thought he’d been so obvious. “Sire, I do not desire—“

“Stop,” Arthur commanded gruffly, tipping his goblet to his lips and glaring at Lancelot over its rim. “I will not allow you to lie to me.” He took a deep swallow of wine, staring at Lancelot. “She will be queen. _My_ queen.” He took another long drink. “So you must not take her maidenhead. You must not _fuck_ her,” he added evenly, as if Lancelot needed clarification. “There must be no doubt. No son of yours will be my heir.” He set his drink down on the wooden table. “But I don’t give a shite what else you two do.”

Nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Lancelot shifted his weight, so he did not fall. “Sire, I—“

“I have no designs on her,” Pendragon continued as if Lancelot hadn’t spoken. “You know where I keep my bed. I am more than happy there. And my sister is not the…sharing type.” He smirked. “Morgana would slit ‘my bride’ belly to throat if I touched her,” he added, chuckling. “And if I had no desire to keep Leodegrance as an ally, I would let her, just for entertainment.” He ripped a bite of mutton from a charred leg, and chewed. Spittle and bits of meat flew.

Lancelot forced the image of Morgana with a dagger at Gwynhyfar’s neck from his mind, and tried to process this news. _Gods…_ “So you plan to have no heir, Sire?”

“That is none of your concern,” he warned around another mouthful. “Morgana understands she cannot be queen. She understands _custom_ , though she does not like it.”

Lancelot schooled his face as not to show his disgust. _Custom?_ “Sire, I—“

“I have little desire to have a dour lord serving me. Pining for another man’s wife does you no good in battle. And I need you at your best in _battle_.” He emphasized _battle_ as if he were speaking of something divine. “Nor do I want to be married to one who believes fate has given her short shrift. It will sour her face,” he added with another grand smirk, “and I do enjoy the sight of her even if I don’t bed her.” He tore off another bite of mutton. “But let me be clear, you are never to disrespect me. You will be the dutiful lord and she, the dutiful queen in my presence and in the presence of all others. Behind closed doors, as I said, I don’t give a fuck what you do. Anything but bedding her properly. _There must be no children_.”

“Sire, I am in no position—“

“Lancelot. Do me the curtesy of at least dropping your pretense for a moment. I am many things, but I am not stupid. Desire of this nature trumps loyalty. Trust me, I know. Morgana…” he chuckled again and took a swallow of his wine. “Regardless. If I don’t give you permission with…boundaries…limits…” He gave Lancelot a hard look. “It is better this way. Myrddin agrees.”

“Sire…”

“That is all, Lancelot. Leave me to the rest of my meal.”

“Yes, My Lord,” he replied as evenly as he could, turned on his heel, and left the Grand Hall before he collapsed.

* * *

 

“I will give you a way, Lancelot du Lac.”

Lancelot was staring out to the fields surrounding the castle, still trying to make sense of the chieftain’s earlier words. Gods, why had the man offered the woman who would soon be his wife? Had it been a trap? A test? A genuine offer? He didn’t know the man well enough to say. He did, however, know himself well enough to say that he might not be able to refuse it.

He turned from the open window to see that Pendragon’s grizzled old advisor, Myrddin, had appeared in the shadow of the doorway to his private chambers. _A way for what?_ “Excuse me?”

“I will give you a way to bed her.”

Lancelot regarded him warily. “Who?”

The mage ignored his question. “Arthur has given you his conditions, hasn’t he?”

Was everyone going to have a blasted conversation with him about Gwynhyfar this night? “Conditions?” Gods, he was beginning to sound like one of the imbeciles he supped with.

“Yes.” Myrddin regarded him openly.

Of course there were _conditions_. His whole damn life, it always been so. “Yes, Pendragon has given me his…conditions,” he responded bitterly, unable to keep from twisting his lips into a sneer. Quite the opposite of what the chieftain clearly believed, the limits he had imposed had not sated Lancelot’s desire, but had peaked his lust instead.

“You need not heed them. You may bed her. I will give you a way.”

Lancelot raised an imperious eyebrow. “Pendragon has expressly forbidden me to do so.”

“You love her.”

_Fine. I’ll play._ “And this is significant, how?” replied Lancelot, growing weary of the old man’s games. “Speak plainly, wizard,” he added sharply.

“You love her. And so you may have her,” said the elderly wizard in an even tone. It was a statement, not a question, and not so unlike the one Pendragon had used to begin his conversation with Lancelot a scant hour ago.

“Against Pendragon’s wishes? Why would you give me thus?” Surely the old man was joking. Taunting him. Sent by Arthur to test him. Something. Lancelot fought to control the small knot of anger rising within his chest.

Myrddin did not answer these questions either. “I have foreseen Arthur’s future. He will sire a child with Morgana, and this child will help fulfil Arthur’s destiny. Gwynhyfar must not bear children or _all will be lost_.”

_So why would the crazy old bird give_ me _a way to lie with her?_ “I do not understand,” Lancelot replied, his agitation momentarily giving way to unease.

The wizard regarded Lancelot smugly. “It is Arthur’s future. It is not for you to understand.”

Lancelot scowled but decided not to argue with the mage. “I ask again, why would you give me thus?”

“You and she must be bound, tethered to each other. Forever. Bedding her will seal the bond, establish it permanently—a bond that was born by love that few affections will ever rival.” He strolled toward Lancelot. “I have seen your future, Lancelot du Lac.” Myrddin paused, for emphasis Lancelot supposed. “You and she are key in a battle against a great evil, a hatred such as the world has never seen.”

Lancelot huffed another laugh. _Such are the musings of useless old men._ _Rubbish._ “And what evil is this that do you speak of?” Lancelot asked snidely. “The Pendragon had defeated all who oppose him. There is peace.”

“I do not speak of an evil in this time, but in the future.” Myrddin leaned fractionally toward Lancelot. “The far future,” he added. Lancelot suppressed a need to roll his eyes. “Destiny has spoken Lancelot du Lac. You and she are linked together in destiny, even now.”

Lancelot smirked. “What does a bond between us have to do with this...war?”

“I have foreseen that she will choose the side of light in the coming war. But you…” Myrddin paused. “I cannot foresee what side you will choose. If you and she are bound, then there is a better chance you will choose to battle for the side of good.”

_So that is why Myrddin wants me to bed Gwyn—the wizard is wagering that a bond would make me unwilling—or unable—to fight on the side against her._ _Or tip the odds in favor of it._ Disheartened, Lancelot processed this in silence for several moments before he asked Myrddin another question.

“What would have to be done should I wish to bed her and seal this bond between us?”

“And also be certain you will not sire children? I can give you a way, but with this way, there is both a gift and a price. They are one in the same.”

“So what of this gift—this price—you speak of?”

The wizard nodded toward the fireplace; the flames jumped and the sconces around the room flared. “You and she will be forever changed.”

“You will grant me _magic_? Grant us magic?”

The old wizard huffed what sounded like a laugh. “No. I cannot grant magic. The magic already lies dormant within you both. It is a strong magic. I will simply be…awakening it.”

Lancelot walked toward the fireplace, staring into the flames as they receded.

“I will unlock the magic that lives within you both. Once you are aware of the magic within you, I will teach you to brew a potion that, once taken, ensures you will not sire children,” Myrddin continued from behind him. “But if you do not awaken your magic, evil is certain to prevail in the coming war.” Lancelot could hear the taunting in Myrddin’s voice now. “But unlike Arthur, you still have a choice.”

Lancelot scowled and turned from the flames. “Let me understand,” he said sharply. “You say that if I allow you to rouse this… _magic_ …within us, she and I can be together. And you say that the price of liberating this dormant magic is that we will be forever changed by the very magic we awaken,” he said, pinning Myrddin with a stare. “And by bedding her, you hope to entice me to fight on the side of the light during some inevitable, future war between good and evil. You also say that if I choose not to arouse our magic, evil will win.” Lancelot sneered at the old man. “That is no choice.”

“Perhaps.” Myrddin responded nonchalantly as he padded across the room towards a tapestry on the far wall.

Lancelot was silent for a moment. “Does Arthur know that you have arranged this? That I will be sleeping with the queen?”

“No.”

“And if he learns of us? What then? We will not be able to fight in your little… _war_ if we are dead of treason,” Lancelot said snidely.

“I have foreseen that you will not be discovered.”

Lancelot cursed under his breath and huffed a laugh. “You would have me defy a direct command from the chieftain based on soothsaying?” He spat the last word.

“You would have me allow the world to fall into darkness?”

Lancelot had no answer for this. “And this evil you speak of?” Lancelot demanded.

“It is a hatred powerful enough to poison the entire world. But know this, Lancelot du Lac.” The ancient wizard reached out to lightly touch the cloth bearing his coat of arms—a silver serpent coiled on an emerald green background—hanging across the stone. “It will not rise for centuries.”

Lancelot tried to digest this. “Then we will live for centuries?”

“No.” Myrddin turned his black eyes on Lancelot. “You will live many lifetimes.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Lancelot. LANCELOT!”

It was a man’s voice. More so, it was someone he recognized. The room—bright through eyelids that refused to open—felt warm and humid, almost sticky. His face stung. He registered a sharp slap of skin striking skin and realized belatedly that his own face stung again, this time on the opposite cheek. _Wait_. That was Myrddin’s voice. And Myrddin was… _slapping_ him.

Lancelot forced his eyes open a fraction and stopped the wizard’s hand abruptly in his own before it made contact once more. “Enough. I am awake,” he said roughly.

“How do you feel?”

“Satisfactory,” he replied with more confidence than he actually felt. He closed his eyes again and heard Myrddin harrumph. “How long…?”

“Three days,” replied the wizard evenly.

“ _Fuck_.” He heard Myrddin sigh heavily. “The Queen?” he barked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

“She awoke two days ago. She is well.” Myrddin paused. “I must remind you, the potion will induce aftershocks—tremors—that will come upon you unexpectedly. They will be more frequent initially, then taper off as—“

“Yes, yes. So you’ve told me.” Lancelot tried to swallow and found he could not. “Water,” he demanded hoarsely. Myrddin poured and handed him a cup in silence. “When may I see her?”

“Now,” Gwynhyfar said, pushing open the door to the room. “Hello,” she said with a small smile, walking towards him to perch herself lightly on the edge of his bed. She reached for his hand. He took it to find it trembled in his. “Myrddin assures me it will pass,” she said in response to his unasked question.

The Queen turned towards the mage, who had retreated to the other side of the room. “Wizard, you assured me I would be present when you woke him,” she said sharply.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” replied the mage, inclining his head.

“Gwyn…what happened?” Lancelot asked her.

She turned her brown eyes back to him and her expression softened. “Once you took the potion, you collapsed. You’ve not stirred for nearly three days. I was becoming concerned, but Myrddin would not act until today.”

Lancelot processed this for a moment. Then, “Did it work? Do you sense anything?”

“Yes, it worked.” She paused, considering. “It is hard to describe. You will see.”

He made to sit himself up in bed and found he was dizzy. “I—“ he began, and let himself fall back onto the pillows. She took the cup of water from his hands.

“You need sustenance. I’ll—“

“Send Myrddin, my Queen. So we can speak freely.”

“Of course.”

As Gwynhyfar called for Myrddin to fetch some bone broth, he glanced down at his hands. A tremor shook them briefly. He closed his eyes. Gods, he could feel… _something_ that had not been there before: a whisper of knowing, a thrum of power just beneath his skin. It was as if a veil had been pulled off his soul, but his eyes were still adjusting to the new light.

Gwynhyfar returned to sit on his bed and took his hands in her own once more. “Myrddin has shown me incredible things, Lance,” she said in a breathy voice, “but there is still so much to learn. I cannot put it into words, but I feel different.”

He regarded her closely. “You are different.” He took the cup back from her and drank. “Has he taught you any magic?”

“I fashioned a wand. I have been able to use it for simple spells. I can start a fire and lock and unlock doors. And I can create light at the end of my wand, which I have found to be quite useful.”

“A wand? Do I need thus?”

“I believe so. Myrddin explained that it helps focus magic.” She paused and looked at him tenderly, and he saw the beginnings of tears in her honey brown eyes. “When you did not wake, I was so worried, Lance. I begged him to do something, anything, but he refused me until today.” She shivered, but he could not tell if it was from the memory of his unconscious form or a tremor borne of the aftereffects of the potion. “I don’t know what I would have done if...”

“Gwyn. There is no need to think on such things. I am here. I am fine,” he said gently. As if to defy his words, a spasm tore through him. The cup slipped. It shattered on the slate floor, wet shards of ceramic ricocheting in every direction. She stared at him, eyes wide with fear, clasping his hands tightly in hers until the moment passed.

When Lancelot could speak again, he nodded at her spoiled gown and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” she said, smiling sadly. She gently laid her head on his chest. “It will pass.”

He wrapped his still-shaking arms around her and pulled her closer. “I love you.”

“And I, you.”

**One Week Later**

“Those that study the magical arts can apply their focus to a number of areas within it. Potion-making is just one art that you will be able to refine with careful study...”

Lancelot was no longer listening to the old windbag. It had been a week since he had taken the potion that had awakened his magic, and in that week, Lancelot had regained much of his strength he had lost during the time he was unconscious. He had begun to learn spells and charms. He had fashioned his own wand of ash. And when he and Gwyn were alone, they had kissed freely. It was a new life.

How strong would his magic be in another week…a month…a year…?

Myrddin cleared his throat. “Since this particular potion appears to be the most…urgent for you, we will start there.” The wizard sauntered around the table where two iron cauldrons sat empty, surrounded by stirring sticks, mortar and pestles, and various unidentifiable plants. “For this potion, you will need stoneseed root, blue cohosh, pennyroyal, neem, asafoetid, thistle, rue, ginger, angelica, and silphium,” he said, pointing to each in turn. “While this potion requires many ingredients, the brewing itself is quite simple.”

Lancelot raised an eyebrow and turned to glance at Gwyn. Beside him on her own wooden stool, the Queen looked ready to pounce. He chuckled.

The wizard pinned him with a hard look. “Potion making should be done in all appropriate seriousness. Instructions must be followed precisely. Disregard even the smallest direction, and the result could be anything from a potion that is useless to one that is deadly.” Myrddin paused to take a breath. “I will instruct you, but you must be the ones to brew the potion for it work most efficiently.”

“Shall we begin, then?” Lancelot rose from his stool and strode to the worktable.

Myrddin pointed to the stoneseed root. “Start by crushing this one,” he said.

Lancelot picked up a mortar and pestle. “I will get a quill and parchment for notes,” Gwyn said, turning away.

The tremor was upon him so suddenly, Lancelot hardly had time to register shock at its strength. The seizure wracked his body, rendering even his eyes useless; he was vaguely aware that he had knocked over something as his arms flailed about. Then the tremor disappeared as fast as it had come.

Lancelot didn’t hear the explosion as much as felt it: the air pushed over him in a rush of sound and heat, sending shards of iron rushing past and imbedding them in the wood all around him with palpable _thunks_. He forced his eyes to focus and discovered he was on the packed dirt floor of the workroom. _Curious._ His hand was covered in red…warmth. _Still curious_. He turned his hand over to reveal a dagger of iron protruding from it; the metal was lodged deeply in both his third and fourth fingers, pinning them together in a gruesome spectacle. He stared at it, bewildered.

… _but the iron was so sharp that he split his little finger to the nerve and cut the end joint of his second finger right through…_

A woman’s scream ripped him back to conscious thought. He looked up to try to locate its source.

In a breath, Myrddin was squatting next to him, speaking an incantation that vanished remains of cauldron imbedded in his fingers. Then old man began to sing. As Lancelot watched, his wounds seemed to…knit back together.

Lancelot flexed his hand. “You must teach me that, Wizard,” he said ruefully when Myrddin was done.

“Yes, and many other things. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you.” The wizard helped Lancelot to his feet. Gwyn was frozen a few feet from him, tears streaming down her face. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I…I…yes, Lance, although I suspect that I will not easily forget what I’ve just seen.”

“Perhaps Myrddin has a spell to fix that, too.”

* * *

 

No matter what the Queen had said at the sight of his once-ruined hand, he had been glad Myrddin had not used Obliviate on her. The memory had come in handy, after all.

Severus turned back to the woman sitting with him. As Hermione took a swallow of her drink, he echoed words from another lifetime: " _Try me._ "

"He's indecisive. Self-absorbed. Obsessed with fame. He prefers…well, the closest witch who lifts her skirt. I found that I couldn't live that way. It doesn't matter. It was short lived, and we are no longer together. And for that, I'm relieved. More than relieved. Grateful that it's over."

Severus did his best to keep his mind from picturing his beloved anywhere near the Weasley boy. It didn’t quite work. "You need someone single-mindedly dedicated to pleasing you," he said.

He watched her delicate features transform into another incredulous laugh. "Does that wizard even exist?"

"He does," Severus said seriously, locking his eyes on her. _And I’m right here._

And his thoughts turned towards the first time he had found her again.

* * *

 

**735 Avignon, France**

“You wouldn’t understand.”

" _Try me,_ " he dared her, his lips curled in a smirk.

“You would not understand!” she repeated, shrieking her words this time.

“Nothing you say makes sense, woman!” Gervaise bit out, throwing his hands up in the air.

Tonight, the girl had fled the town inn the moment he had entered the common room, fled as if she had seen Merlin’s own ghost. He had chased her down, winding through the well-worn village paths, determined to confront her on her bizarre behavior. He only wanted to know _why_ , and should the reason for her flight be that he had offended her in some way, to set it right. Although he was not what most would call a handsome man, he was not used to women running from him. It was much, much more common for them to do the opposite.

But should the reason for her disappearance be that she could somehow sense his…magic, Gervaise wasn’t sure exactly what he would do. He couldn’t fathom how the girl could know of it; he had never spoken to soul about it, never practiced it where others could see. Perhaps she simply recognized it within him? If so, would that mean she, too, kept magic of her own?

Whatever the reason she was avoiding him, he had to know.

Gervaise had seen her for the first time several months before, on the evening he had arrived in Avignon. He had pushed his way inside the crowded town inn, seeking food and shelter for the night. He had noticed her eyes widen when she caught sight of his face. Before he could react, she had dropped the tray she had been carrying with an explosive crash and had vanished into an adjacent room. Since then, she had avoided him, even going to far as to send her mum or da to his table each night to serve him food and drink. Tonight, she had simply ran out the front door when she saw him enter the common room, retreating into the liquid darkness of the night.

Now he had finally cornered her. An explanation was due him. Immediately.

“And nothing I will say will explain it to your satisfaction!” Her words came out as a screech.

He paused. If she wasn’t frightened of him already, she would be soon if he continued on this path. “Have I done something? I would like to apologize if I have,” he said quietly.

This seemed to deflate her. She stared down at the flagstones of the village street. “No,” she responded just as softly.

“What is it then?”

She gazed up at him then, meeting his eyes with her own. They reminded him of the soft brown of a fawn. “I remember you.”

“You remember me,” he echoed, unsure what to think of this revelation. He would have recalled if they had met before. She was someone he was unlikely to forget.

“Sir—“

“I am called Gervaise.”

She gifted him an odd look. “Gervaise, then. It matters not if you do not remember me,” she said, then added, more quietly, “perhaps I am truly mad.”

“I doubt very much you are mad. Perhaps I remind you of someone?”

She huffed a laugh and paused. “Give me this, if you would. Should you… _remember_ me, find me and tell me. That is all.” And with that, the girl turned and walked slowly away. He watched her until she turned the corner onto the main village road, disappearing behind the blacksmith’s shop and into the night, leaving him in the cold moonlight, alone.

**Two Months Later**

The sun had finally made its way below the hills, and after the tiring day on horseback, Gervaise was more than ready to eat and settle in for the night. The land promised by Martel in exchange for his sword oath had been granted at last, and today he’d been to inspect it. It was a generous parcel, blessed with a vibrant stream and good pastureland, woods fat with deer, and a decent manor house. He was pleased. The home only required a few minor repairs and all would be in order. He’d given the command to stock the kitchen and clean the rooms so he would be able to reside there in less than a fortnight’s time.

Now it was late, past time to sup and sleep. Gervaise turned his warhorse over to a terrified stable boy with a chuckle and made his way to front door of the inn where he had stayed for the last eight weeks.

Gervaise opened the door to find the common room noisy with laughter, minstrels barely audible over the din. He dropped himself down at an empty wooden chair and found that he was… _nearly_ content. He’d achieved what he had set out to do: The Hammer had desired his sword so vehemently that he had been granted a lordship and all of its trappings. Yet something was missing in his life, even after all he had done, all he had accomplished. It was something he’d never been unable to discern, but that something nagged at him nonetheless.

Regardless, he would not permit this _feeling_ to spoil his evening. He was a lord now, after all. He raised his voice and to summon a server. And, then, surprisingly, the girl came over to stand near his table.

He looked at her pointedly. “So you no longer run when you see me?” he quipped, smiling to soften his words.

“I realized I would rather see your face than run,” she answered. He noted the weight beneath her words, in contrast to her own lighthearted smile. “What may I fetch for you tonight, Sir Gervaise?”

He grabbed her hand. “Nothing yet, my lady. First you must dance with me to celebrate.” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her to the floor. “I do not know your name,” he said, bending towards her ear so she could hear him over the throng.

“I am called Josceline,” she replied, stretching up towards him. After a minute or two, she broke from the dance, curtseyed, and strode towards the front door and out into the night. He stared after her. _Perhaps this night she will agree to tell me what troubles her._

Gervaise discovered her not far from the stables, leaning against an oak, staring at the night sky. As he came to stand next to her, she reached up to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. He followed her gaze upward.

Josceline turned to look at him. “You always favored a walk in the evenings,” she said softly, “especially if there was warm breeze moving the trees.” He looked at her curiously, but thought it wise not to reply. She reached out to gently brush his face with her fingertips.

He felt it then: a ripple, subtle yet undeniable, tickling over his skin, a spark that arched _from_ her. He was immediately certain it was magic, a magic matching his. On second thought, perhaps his own magic that had arched up to meet hers. He couldn’t be sure.

He saw her brown eyes widen as she pulled her hand back. “Are they real then?” she breathed.

“Are what real, my lady?” he whispered.

“My dreams.”

“My lady, I—“

She cut across his words by reaching for him once again, threading her fingers in his hair, and dragging him into a deep kiss. His shock gave way to images, first as insubstantial as a whisper…then incomplete impressions…

Finally, the sketches in his mind became more solid: images of a rough chieftain emerged…an old wizard…and a delicate queen…then a deluge of memory, of sound and color, enveloped him. It knocked him to the ground. _Gwynhyfar…_

She crouched next to him, holding out her hand towards his face, not touching him yet. “Lancelot?” she whispered, almost too soft for him to hear.

“Fy mhrenhines <My queen>,” he breathed, and drew her towards him until he was able to circle his arms around her.

“Beloved,” she replied, collapsing on his lap, folding her body and soul into him once more.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione looked to her Firewhisky as if it could wash away some unpleasant memory. Severus cringed inwardly at her choice of words to describe the Weasley boy’s failings.

… _the closest witch who lifts her skirt_ …

He had chosen to use those very words once, hundreds of years ago.

* * *

 

_“Forgive you? Forgive you! Never! Not now! Not in a thousand lifetimes!” Gwyn screeched, her brown eyes wild with fury._

_“She meant nothing. I was lonely and too far in my cups. Gods, Gwyn! I hadn’t seen you in months! She was the closest wench who lifted her skirt—that was all. I barely remember it! It meant nothing! Nothing!”_

_“There is a child!”_

_Her revelation echoed against the stone walls of the chamber and fell around them, crumbling the chilly air that had settled in the room._

_“A child?” he said, bewildered. He felt around for the chair behind him to prevent himself from collapsing onto the stone floor._

_The Queen didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away towards the window._

_His legs gave way and gratefully, he found himself on the wool cushion rather than the cold stone beneath his feet. He gulped. “Gods, Gwyn. I…I didn’t know.”_

_She swung back around to him; the honey brown of her eyes, usually so warm for him, was like ice. “She’s the daughter of Pelles! You couldn’t have been so far in your cups that you didn’t notice you were fucking a wench who could bear the heir to a throne!”_

_“I knew who it was! But I didn’t know there was a child!” Lance said, his voice rising._

_Silence surrounded them and the Queen turned away again. He could see from her outline against the window that she was trembling. Whether it was in anger or grief, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was both._

_“How could you?” she whispered, still facing the open air to the grounds, her voice wavering. “The one thing denied us. The one thing.”_

_“It is not the only thing!” he said, his frustration rising. “You are not my wife!”_

_She flinched, but spun to confront him and meet his frustration with her own. “So that is why you think you can bed her freely? Or anyone? Because we are not properly married?” she snarled._

_“No! I was simply trying to say that a child is the not the only thing denied us!” he roared back at her. He pushed down the fury and the crushing injustice of it all, and fought to regain his composure._

_“Am I such a passing fancy that you forget me when you’ve soured yourself with a bit of drink? That since I am forced to wear another’s ring, you are not mine and I am not yours?”_

_“Gwyn, I…” He let his words drift into silence. He could think of nothing worthwhile to add._

_“There is child,” she repeated._

_He fought to understand the meaning behind her words. Were they more than an accusation? Were they a dismissal? Panic flooded his veins._

_“I’m sorry,” he said._

_She pulled her gaze away from him and began to openly weep, desperate sobs wracking her tiny frame._

_“It is already whispered that he is yours,” she managed._

_“He…?”_

_“Why did you do thus?”_

_He took a breath before answering. “I have no excuse,” he replied. “I thought it would be a…delightful fiction should I picture you when I was bedding her. But I was wrong. It was nothing like…it was an empty reminder. My judgment was lacking and my heart was sore from loneliness. I knew her before I…I fetched you in Cameliard. Forgive me.”_

_“Your heart was sore from loneliness? My very soul is bruised!” she spat, disgust on her face. “You and she have a child!”_

_Lance was certain he had lost her and all had been for naught. He rose and moved towards her, slowly with palms up and out, in supplication, as if it would prevent her from lashing out at him or bolting out of the chamber. When he reached her, he draped his arms gently around her and bent his head to rest on top of hers. Her body was rigid with anger._

_“It is my great hope that the wizard has dealt rightly with us, and perhaps in some future life, both marriage and children will be ours,” he whispered into her unruly curls. He felt her shoulders slump and her indignation give way underneath him._

_“Would that it would be so,” she said in barely a whisper._

_“I will devote all my days—my many lives if Myrddin speaks true—to giving you everything. I will single-mindedly devote my life to pleasing you, should you allow me, my Lady.”_

* * *

 

Hermione turned unreadable brown eyes to him. Her lips rose into a slow, tentative smile, softening her recent critique of the Weasley boy and drawing Severus out of the painful memory. Sweet Merlin, in every life, she was so beautiful. If her _remembering_ were only as easy as it had been that night under the moonlight in the French countryside centuries ago. It had only taken one simple kiss, one arch of magic.

What was left for him to try?

Music saturated the air around them, and Hermione turned away to gaze longingly at the dance floor. He smiled at the unexpected gift. _She has always loved dancing. Perhaps…_

Severus stood, offering his hand to her. "Dance with me," he said, more command than request. She glanced up from his outstretched hand to meet his eyes, regarding them with confusion.

"Thank you," she said after a moment, taking his hand and recovering her composure, her whispered words nearly too soft for him to hear.

As they reached the floor, he gathered Hermione’s delicate frame towards his own. The brush of a curl against his cheek and the scent of parchment, jasmine, and rose nearly unhinged him. As she settled her slight hand in his, Severus gently placed his other hand in the small of her back and began to guide her across the room, unable to keep his thoughts in the present.

* * *

 

**Troyes, France**

“Dance with me,” Henry stood and held out his hand to his bride.

“I’m quite taken with your charms you know, good sir,” Marie said as she took it, rising from the table and curtseying.

“I’m impossible to resist, my lady,” he responded, looking at her mischievously as he led her towards the center of the room.

She laughed. “If, in some future life, I don’t remember you at once, you can always try to seduce me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied with a smirk.

Tongues of the French nobility had been wagging at the brief engagement of Count Henry and Lady Marie. None disputed it was a good match, by measure of both position and temperament. But many wondered about the length of the courtship and betrothal insofar as to say it lasted only as long as wedding arrangements could be made. More than one noble wondered aloud if the Count would produce an heir embarrassingly soon.

To say that Henry didn’t give a damn what was rumored about them would be to suggest that he actually gave the gossip some modicum of thought. He did not. Henry’s only thoughts were for his new bride and suppressing his stunned disbelief that, in fact, Myrddin had spoken the truth. They lived. _Again_. Yes, Myrddin had said _lifetimes_ –plural—but telling and experiencing were two _very_ different things.

And as of a scant hour ago, they were _married_. As they were some 400 years before.

_This time,_ Henry silently begged any deity that would listen, _this time, let us have longer than we had in Avignon._

Henry pulled Marie close as the beginning notes of a waltz filled the room.

_Since Martel’s war was not the great evil that Myrddin spoke of, perhaps peace will not last in this lifetime…or perhaps will we live again and suffer war in some future life…_

“Henry?”

“Yes, beloved?”

“You seemed distracted for a moment. Are you well?”

Henry reached up to tuck an escaped curl behind her ear and pulled his bride closer. “You are here, and I am here, so I am very well, my love. Very well, indeed.”

* * *

 

There was no way to hold Hermione and not experience the past— _their_ past. How would Severus ever be able to stay his hand when his yearning for her was so overwhelming? How could he reign in his feelings so that he would not automatically treat Hermione as if she were already his?

Even though she was.

He allowed the memory of Troyes to fade as the music followed suit, swallowing his disappointment at the distance in her eyes.

"Have dinner with me," he said, leaning in and breathing into the shell of her ear.

She whispered her reply. "When?"

"Now."

Without waiting for an answer, Severus led her from the floor, stopping at the dark corner table for their cloaks. They exited the side door into the darkness. He wrapped himself around her—while trying not to breathe too much of her in—and spun them away.

* * *

 

Severus gently let Hermione go as his sitting room righted itself around them.

" _Incindio_ ," he said, commanding the fireplace into life.

After offering Hermione a drink, Severus left her by the fire and entered his tiny kitchen to pour two scotches. The decanter shook in his hand as he tipped it toward the crystal tumbler, rattling against it.

What if, after all this, she still did not remember? His brief kiss at Grimmauld Place hadn’t been enough. Echoing their banter from previous lifetimes hadn’t been enough. Dancing hadn’t been enough. Would tonight’s outrageous advances be sufficient to jar her memories loose when a fleeting embrace had not? If not, what else could he do? What if she simply never remembered him? Where would that leave him in this life?

_And what if all of this is merely in my head—and none of it is real—and the Cruciatus has left me delightfully hallucinating and woefully insane?_

With their drinks in hand, Severus paused at the threshold to the sitting room, willing his breath and heart to calm. His beloved was staring into the fire, her profile towards him. Merlin, she was as beautiful as she had always been. She turned as he entered the room, and looked at him openly, almost…curiously. How he had missed holding her, these long years.

“I’m not hungry, Severus,” she said softly as he approached and handed her the glass.

_‘…if, in some future life, I don’t remember you at once, you can always try to seduce me…’_

“Oh, but you are,” he said, calling to mind their first night together in Camlann and allowing a Welsh accent to seep into his whisper. “I know you. You are starving. Ravishing, in fact.”

He moved closer, and for the first time in this life, she did not back away. He tucked a strand of wayward brown behind her ear and brushed the rest of her riotous curls back off her shoulders. She shivered.

“You ache for something that pleases more than just the tongue,” he whispered, leaning towards her ear. “Your soul longs for something you have yet to find.”

He grazed the flesh of her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. She closed her eyes. “You crave something that will satisfy you so completely, the memory of it will consume you…an indulgence that will tether you to one single wizard who is devoted to quench that unyielding thirst within you.”

At his words, her face flushed and she arched her neck upwards.

“ _I know you._ You do not seek some _thing_. You seek some _one_. All you have experienced in this lifetime has been a distraction, a deception sliding around the truth.”

“What truth?” she whispered.

“You know the truth, Hermione.”

She opened her eyes to gaze at him.

“I have waited for you,” he whispered. “I have been patient. I have allowed you your dalliances, knowing they would teach you that no other can indulge you the way I can…the way I will.”

He traced a tender line from her shoulder up her neck to her ear with his lips, leaving gooseflesh in his wake.

“Stay the night, Hermione,” he said, his tone more command than question. “But know this,” he continued evenly, pinning her brown eyes with a stare while pushing memories of them to the surface, “if you stay, you will find yourself in my bed. And if you find yourself in my bed this night, I will awaken your hunger, and you will beg to remain in my bed, forevermore.”

She breathed a question: “And will you allow it?”

“I will demand it,” he answered simply then kissed her as if he were a drowning man and she was the one chance he had at life.

 

* * *

 

Severus felt her sigh through his kiss. After a brief moment, Hermione placed one hand tentatively on his chest; he felt the heat of it through his shirt, simmering on his skin. In another breath, she began to respond to him in earnest, her tongue meeting his with an urgency of her own, dipping, exploring, pushing; he cupped her head in both of his hands, tilting and guiding her so he could deepen his kiss.

A sigh escaped his own mouth, and before he could stop himself, he murmured, “Fy anwylyd _[Beloved]._ ”

She froze.

Breaking the kiss, she withdrew from his embrace. Her brown eyes were wide, her lips swollen and parted in surprise. The glass she’d been holding in one hand slipped and shattered as it met the slate floor. She backed away. The broken glass crunched under her steps, echoing the crackling of the newly born fire.

“You…you…I...” she sputtered, but he could see the recognition in her honey eyes.

It was only then, as a torrent of relief poured into him, that he allowed himself to smile.

“Ydych chi'n cofio? _[Do you remember me?]_ ” he whispered.

She nodded, apparently not to be able to speak.

“Sut? _[How?]_ ” she breathed finally.

“Je ne sais pas, bien-aimée _[I do not know, beloved]_ ,” he responded softly.

Hermione collapsed into the couch behind her, placing a trembling, delicate hand over her mouth. She stared at him for a long moment, and then closed her eyes as a sob escaped her lips.

He let her cry.

She dropped her hand and opened her eyes once more, smiling as tears ran down her face.

“It has been so long...” she managed.

He instinctively retreated to one knee before her and took her hand. “Too long this time, my Queen.”

“When...when did you know?”

“The night you arrived at Hogwarts when you were eleven. The intervening years proved...difficult.” He huffed a rueful, half-hearted laugh.

“My God,” she breathed. “You pushed me away until I hated you. Or tried to hate you. I never could.”

“I had a job to do as a spy, and you were a distraction. If my efforts proved unsuccessful, we would have never had a future together in this life. You were but a child then, my Lady. And Myrddin’s war was finally upon us.”

She drew him up off the floor and sat him down beside her, enveloping him in a fierce embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“All of that was out of your control,” Severus said, trying and failing to keep the pain out of his voice.

Hermione pulled out of his arms and stared at him though her tears. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry _about_ _Ron_. In my heart, in my _soul_ , I knew it wasn’t right and that it would never be right. I was trying to find...gods, Lance, I was trying to find _you_. I’m so sorry.”

“I know.” He chuckled softly. “It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. There was Elaine...”

“You will never allow that name escape your lips again,” she said with all the authority of the royalty she once was.

“I was simply making a point...”

“Oh, I understand your point,” she said somewhat stiffly. “At least there were no children with Ron,” she added more gently.

“That was one hell of a bloody mess.”

“Indeed,” she responded, staring into the fire.

They were both silent for a moment.

“I was beginning to become...concerned you wouldn’t remember. I could think of nothing else to do but...this.” He paused, gestering around them. “I have never been whole without you, my Lady.”

“Nor I without you.” She smiled softly. “I delight in your embrace.”

They both watched the fire dance, lost in the memories they had found in each other.

She turned and looked at him curiously. “Tell me of Lily Potter.”

He huffed another laugh. “A cover, a ploy. It served me well. Think no more on it, Your Grace.”

She regarded him with a piercing gaze, as if she required a more complete explanation. He obliged her.

“From my earliest memories, I always felt lost yet I did not understand why. I joined the Death Eaters out of desperation. I thought I would find completeness there...at the very least, a feeling of _belonging_ within their ranks. Of course, I did not.”

He paused, his brow furrowed.

“It was my fault for revealing the prophecy that led to the murder of the Potters. Lily had been...special to me as a child, and by her death, I regretted all that I had become. But once I saw you—and remembered—everything changed. After convincing myself that I was not insane, I knew we both must survive the war to reconnect in this life. I needed to protect you. And protecting you meant protecting Potter’s son.

“I allowed—encouraged, even—others to believe that I changed sides to avenge Lily Potter’s death. Who would have believed me if I told them I had found my soulmate once again—at the time, a mere child, a student that held little affection for me—and I would do anything in my power to keep you from harm? That we have enjoyed lifetimes together beyond memory and imagination? That I am incapable of fighting on the side against you, my Queen?

“Perhaps I manufactured a few memories and an exaggerated affection for a childhood friend. It worked. No one questioned me, assuming my pain at her loss so great as to make me unapproachable. My pain in this life _has_ been great, but it was not due to the death of Lily Potter. It was more the fact that I had to watch you each day remembering our past, watch you living your life, knowing you did not realize who I was...who we are.”

“I cannot imagine,” she said softly. “I have never had to watch you mature into a man. I had mere months after we met in Avignon to convince myself that I was not mad, not years.”

“That was a cruel life.”

“Avignon broke my heart anew,” she said, her voice catching momentarily. “But how did you hide the memory of us from Dumbledore? Voldemort?” she continued, returning the conversation to the present.

“Neither are Myrddin,” he said with a smirk. “Occulmancy is a specialty of mine, as you know. As it turns out, I have developed some skill in Obliviate charms as well as Legilimency. I never advertised these talents, however.”

“I’m certain that it is much more than just ‘some talent’, beloved.”

“Perhaps.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and began to laugh softly. “I’m so blind.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, and she opened her honey brown eyes to gaze at him. “You left the Sword of Gryffindor at the bottom _of a lake,_ Lancelot _du Luc_.”

“It was more of a pond, really,” he smirked.

“I have missed you,” she said, truly smiling now. “But I don’t miss Avignon or Troyes. Or Camlann, for that matter.” She sighed happily. “I much prefer the trappings of this time.”

“As do I. It’s a bit less—“

“—muddy,” she completed for him.

He laughed. “Exactly.” He reached for her hands and took it in both of his. “I have missed you.”

“And I, you.” She looked at him earnestly. “What do you prefer, beloved? By what shall I call you? Severus? Henry? Gervaise? Lancelot?”

“As you are—and always have been—mine, and mine alone…I prefer _husband_ , Hermione. I always have. I always will.”

At that she smiled, inclining her head towards him. “As you wish, husband.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added a very short epilogue to close this story. I hope you enjoy it. As always, thanks for reading my little AU fic. -slbb

It would be the last _remembering_.

Severus looked down at the woman curled up at his side and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. There would be no more moments such as this one, where they sifted through many lifetimes of memories while trying to orient themselves to the present. The realization hit him oddly; it was a mixture of sadness, relief, joy, and trepidation warring for control.

The next time they died, it would be forever.

In truth, he had no desire for the artificial longevity that the Dark Lord had pursued; the thought of horcruxes turned his stomach sour. If, at the end, he felt this life had been well lived, it would be more than enough.

He sighed. Myrddin’s two-part war had changed him. And her, he was certain. The conflict had broken something unnamed in both of them. He wondered if they would ever fully recover.

Severus shifted his body, turning more towards the witch that had shared innumerable days with him; in response, she reached up to trace the edge of his jaw with the tips of her fingers, her honey eyes full of contentment. How did he earn the love of this perfect woman? Perhaps the truth was that he never had. Perhaps she’d been born already in love with him.

Hermione moved to rise, and he reached out to pull her back to him, sliding his fingers into her curls and dragging her mouth towards his. He felt her shudder, although whether it was from the brush of his lips, the room’s chilly air, or the _remembering_ , he did not know.

“I want…” she whispered around his kiss.

_Yes_ , he thought, unwilling to pull away so he could voice his answer, _I do, too_.

It had also been cold the night he had first lain with her so long ago. A relentless north wind had gutted candles throughout Camelot’s drafty castle; in his chambers, the warmth of the fire seemed feeble, the linens, overly thin. And despite Myrddin’s assurances, both of them had been distracted and unsure, part of their attention focused on listening for noises that might originate from the down the hall and herald the end of everything they had wrought.

“Gwen…?” She had frozen and tilted her head, as if she had been trying to hear something.

After a breath, she had relaxed and replied with a soft smile; he had kissed her, eliciting a lilting sigh that he captured on his tongue, to savor in the days ahead when he knew he would see her on the arm of his king and be helpless to even meet her eye.

Their union that night had been gentle, almost tentative, devoid of the hunger and desperation most first time lovers share. He had found that she felt weightless under his touch—that she had become as light as air, yet as necessary as breath.

His eyes had followed the rise and fall of her chest when they had eventually rolled apart, marveling that they had, indeed, finally shared their bodies.

She was his air.

In their next life, on the night of _remembering_ , they had wandered hand in hand to the edge of the wood, and he had conjured a blanket so they might lie under the shelter of a tree until the torrent of memories abated. Hours later, when he finally took her, he had fucked her loud and hard, his thrusts driving them both off the wool and onto the warm, summer forest floor.

As he had spilled the last of his seed within her, he had opened his eyes to realize his fists were clenched in the dirt on either side of her body—he had been grasping handfuls of earth to steady him as he claimed her. As the fractured moonlight fell around them through the leaves of the oak, he had barked a laugh, because for the first time, they had no need for stealth or silence, for at most, they would be accused of lewdness.

Not executed for treason.

She was the earth below him. _His_ earth.

Severus closed his eyes as his third life washed around him.

A steady tide of peace eventually had lulled him into abandoning the fear of a future war. He had spent the years in France slowly drinking her into him, taking a lifetime to soak his soul in hers. In turn, she had poured herself into him. She had tasted sweet and cool to the man who, in lifetimes before, had never gotten his fill of her.

He had been so very thirsty.

Water.

This time, the woman before him was all of those things, yet none. She had become something fundamentally different, something hard to contain, difficult to hold, and nearly impossible to classify. 

She was time; she was colour. She was the substance of soul, the essence of being.

Were they soulmates? There had been a time, eons ago, when he would have scoffed at the notion from atop his war horse. But now, he supposed it could be true, if such things were possible.

_No_ , he mused upon further reflection as he felt her curls brush his neck, they were not soulmates at all. They were not two mirror-twin souls that had been somehow matched by fate.

No, not two. _One._

They shared the same, single soul.

Echoes.

Echoes of sighs, of other nights of _remembering_ , of other, distant moonlight.

A lone guttering candle.

The fragrance of the forest.

The grit biting into his knees as he knelt before Pendragon…the warmth of the sun on his back as he followed Martel into battle, the screams of his men beckoning him ever forward…the smell of parchment in her library in Troyes…the feel of emerald silk under his fingertips…

He resisted the pull of memory and forced himself back to the present.

_She’s here,_ he thought, _thank Merlin,_ and then huffed a laugh at the ludicrous idiom. After more than 1,500 years, the old man had finally breached his subconscious thought in the way some gave gratitude to a deity.

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

He ignored her unspoken question as she began to stroke his fingers with her own delicate fingertips, tracing where his scar had been in his first life. Her touch anchored him to this night. This existence.

“So was your plan, this time?” she asked. “Asking me to commission a book? Dedicating love poetry? Brewing a potion, perhaps?” She snuggled closer, if it were possible. “Proclaiming your affection while I stood oblivious on a balcony above?” she asked wryly.

He huffed another laugh. “It was something you said to me once. That I could always try to seduce you if nothing else worked.”

She giggled.

“Come now, it was a formidable plan,” he said with false sincerity while attempting to keep a straight face, “considering my powers of seduction.”

“A formidable plan then, indeed,” she said, laughing again.

He placed his hands on either side of her face, rubbing the soft skin of her cheeks with the pad of his thumbs while taking in her honey eyes. After a moment, he let his fingers tangle in her curls, and pulled her into a deep kiss, starting slow and wide and breathless until he began to move more urgently, as if spurred by a desire he was no longer willing to control.

Their kiss burned the memories away, consuming images of unwilling pawns, of purposeful soldiers. Of loss.

It was a cleansing fire.

And it lit something unfamiliar inside him. _Hope_ , he supposed.

This, _this_ was the way they would rebuild what had been broken, the way they would forge a life without the burden of prophecy: one breath, one kiss, one fire at a time.


End file.
